


A Ghost

by aspiegirl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Depressing, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Reunion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-01
Packaged: 2017-12-03 20:59:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/702582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aspiegirl/pseuds/aspiegirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has always been haunted by John Watson, but it gets so much worse...</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Ghost

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by "I'm Not Calling You a Liar" by Florence + The Machine. Its dedicated to CharlotteShay, for all those depressing stories you made me read, and for rubbing off on me.
> 
> I wrote this in about 45 minutes, so if you see any problems that I missed PLEASE tell me about them. I'd appreciate any advice offered.

John had always haunted him. In truth, it was what had ~~attracted~~ made Sherlock interested in John in the first place. Sherlock could read him, but there was always a missing piece, some little thing he’d forgotten or overlooked ~~or ignored~~ , like when he didn’t realize Harry was a sister and not a brother ~~stupid of course John didn’t have a brother, that was obvious from the lines around his eyes~~. Every time he tried to read John, there was always something off. It gave Sherlock a distraction, something to turn over in one corner of his mind, letting him focus the rest of his mind on the case or the experiment or the music. It had been like that from the first day.

The day Sherlock ~~fell~~ jumped, he jumped ~~it was his own choice, it was his own free will, it was on purpose and not an accident, that made it both easier and so much harder~~ , he saw John, and though it hurt ~~so deep too deep~~ to see him in pain like that, there was a part of Sherlock ~~there was always a part of Sherlock, it never stopped, never went away no matter how much he wanted it to~~ that was analyzing John, seeing first-hand how he reacted to the death of someone he considered close ~~of course he would check the pulse even then, it was his training, he’d do it for any one but afterwards the pain was so much more _real_ than it was even with the victims of their most brutal cases~~.

It wasn’t until later, when he had left to find was what left of Moriarty’s network, that he realized that John was truly haunting him. It wasn’t the usual considerations of what he had missed ~~bristle on his toothbrush more worn on the left, slightly worn spot on the top of the handle of his favorite mug, the single picture on the wall of his room, of a rocky beach he had been to as a child, just noticeably tilted~~ , it was something more. He could sometimes _see_ John, picture him in a way he usually didn’t, seeing instead only the tiny oddities, not the whole picture. The longer his hunt dragged on ~~for days and months, past a year, a case that was both electrifying and _boring_ ~~ the more clear John became, more distinct, no longer just looking at Sherlock ~~accusing him, judging him, berating him, and worst of all, the hardest to bear, _begging_ him~~ , but moving, going through his daily routines, making himself an invisible cup of tea, reading a nonexistent newspaper ~~what a silly distinction, of course the newspaper is nonexistent, so is John, but it doesn’t _feel_ that way~~, and leaping up to follow Sherlock whenever he gets a new lead. Then, once, he almost gets shot, because he though, just for a second, that the gun was aimed at John, and that moment made his mind go shockingly blank, giving the assassin just enough time to loose a shot, and although Sherlock jumped out of the way, her bullet just grazed the top of his left shoulder, leaving him with a scar on his shoulder ~~like John~~ not far from his heart ~~like John~~.

Then, one day, Sherlock realized that John was starting to fade. At first, it was tiny changes, in the length of his hair and fingernails. Then, he couldn’t remember how John cut his nails, whether they were cut straight across or rounded. The day he couldn’t remember John’s eye colour ~~blue no a stormy blue, like cerulean, or was it closer to Egyptian blue, or was it lighter, a powder blue, or was it closer to green, a turquoise or pacific blue or teal, or was it gray he couldn’t remember it's in there _somewhere_ he knew he wouldn't have deleted it! ~~ he stayed in bed, unable to move for fear that he would lose something else if he didn’t run through everything he knew about John endlessly.

He knew, then, that he was finished. There were only six more agents left, and Mycroft had been pestering him to return, to let his teams handle this, that he’d done enough, that it was time to come home ~~to John~~.

The day he arrived back in London, he was shaking, ~~terrified~~ uncertain of what John’s reaction would be to his return. He had been gone for almost two years ~~what if John had moved on? Mycroft said he hadn’t but Mycroft _lied_ he always lied what should Sherlock trust him now?~~

He went back to that flat, knowing that John was out buying groceries ~~Mycroft told him that too, what if he'd lied about that >~~ The flat was empty ~~Mycroft hadn't lied, thank God,~~ and Sherlock walked through, seeing his ghost ~~his John~~ more clearly than he had in months. As he wandered ~~almost nothing different, his violin in a cabinet instead of near the desk, the skull at the other end of the mantle, the far wall smooth, unblemished by paint or bullet holes, the books slightly less scattered, his room untouched, but perfectly clean~~ he considered what he would say, what he would do ~~call out to John, let him walk in and see him, play the violin as a warning, make him tea, a sandwich, a drink, say nothing, leave a note by the door, go see Mrs. Hudson first, let him walk in on the two of them together meet him on the street go to the store now see John grab him hold him make him real again memorize him~~. Nothing seemed right, and suddenly he heard footsteps on the stairs ~~oh God where was his time he has to decide what he will do, where has all his time gone where and he wanted this a moment ago but now he’s not sure he doesn’t know _he doesn’t know_ ~~ and then John is there, standing in the door, and the groceries are on the floor around him and Sherlock takes a step and a step and a step, and suddenly his legs give out and he’s on his knees in front of John and he hasn’t said anything and he’s so sorry he knows it is unforgivable and he should never have returned to interrupt John’s life because he’s about to be sent right back out, rejected, abandoned, and –

He feels a pair of hands on his face, pulling him up, making him stand, making him look at John in the eyes, and he has no idea how John’s nails are cut or how long his hair is or what colour his eyes are, all he notices is the joy, the love in those eyes, then the feel of warm lips pressed against his forehead, holding there for a full minute, before he feels them move a few millimeters away, to whisper –

“Welcome home.”


End file.
